


What's more powerful, hope or despair?

by yuusukejinpachi



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Amputation, and his past, isnt completely accurate but yeah, like i said, this story is about komaeda, what happened to him and such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuusukejinpachi/pseuds/yuusukejinpachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Komaeda has always been known as "crazy", but how did he become to be that way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's more powerful, hope or despair?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading! Just wanted to mention that although this is written with the events of Komaeda's life, the way that some things happened may not be completely accurate, as there was not enough information about the event to really write about it. So I tried my best to fill the empty holes in the real plot the best I could. Enjoy <3

This fit of laughter, it won’t stop! I’m going to do it. It’s going to add worth to myself and give her revenge, all at the same time! Hahahahaha! How cool! Maybe, if I have a part of her connected to me, I’ll be more than trash. Being the Super High School Level Luckster is nothing compared to the extravagances that is the Super High School Level Despair! Everyone else here has a talent, but me being basically useless, was chosen merely on luck… and hope. Yes! Hope! Hope is the one thing that gets me going! All the students getting together and returning despair to the mastermind, the one who started all this, the one controlling Monobear, her name is Junko Enoshima! I can see it now! All of the hope, it’s too much for my worthless self to handle. Hahahaha!  
Standing in front of her dead, blood drenched body, I start to think; when did I become “crazy”? Maybe it started during childhood. Maybe it sparked when my parents died. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My birth mother had died during childbirth, and my birth father was no where to be found. I was adopted by a seemingly nice couple shortly after my 3rd birthday. Before that I lived in orphanage after orphanage because nobody wanted me. I was so excited to finally be adopted. We had a dog too; he was my best and only friend. Growing up, everyone thought I was weird. My hair was always too crazy and my eyes were always too focused and my personality was always too static. I got used to it though, I had my dog. The day my adoptive parents died started out like any other. They left me at home alone with the dog, giving me the usual “Be a normal child for once, Komaeda.” Their words seem cruel, but I’m used to it; if I had a child like me, id say the same. None the less, I still loved them more than life itself. It was me and the dog; left in the dark, ominous house for hours on end. Around 10pm, the door shook with vibrations from someone pounding on it so hard I thought it was going to pop off the hinges. I opened the door to see two fairly normal sized policemen, although sense I was about 11 at the time, they seemed like giants. Their broad, strict personalities gleamed off their bodies and struck fear into each of my pores. They asked me my name, and then proceeded to tell me that my parents had died in a car crash earlier that night; although after they said the word “died”, everything went into a faded blur as I realized my whole life was falling into crumbles.  
After that, my life became nothing. I felt, and still feel bad for breathing the air that could go to someone with so much hope in them. Shortly after my parent’s funeral, I was taken into custody by the police to find a home. But before they could truly take me to an orphanage, I was kidnapped by one of the most dangerous serial killers on the loose. They didn’t treat me very well. They tied up my hands and feet, duct taped my mouth shut, and threw me into the back of a van. I stayed tied up in the van for what seemed like weeks. I was starved and brutally abused day after day. When the serial killer realized that I couldn't give any of the ransom because of my age, I was finally released back to my home. The way I describe it, it sounds like I’m an animal. Even though I’m worth as much as a rabid animal, I am still human; but I sure as hell wasn’t treated like one.  
After about a year with the police, they gave up on trying to find me a home. I was 12 by then, so they decided that I was old enough to live by myself. They took me back to the home that I had lived in with my adoptive parents. The house held a suspenseful and melancholic feel in the air that was so thick you could have been choked with it. There was one good thing entering that indomitable house though, my dog was there. A sad look took over his hazel eyes, but aside from that his tongue hung low out of his mouth and his tail excitingly waged as if he was slicing the air that kept me from breathing. I was so excited I could hardly stand. I launched towards him and gave him the best reassuring hug I could give him. I was back with my best friend. I'm not sure where he was while I was away, but I was so damn happy that I was back with him. No words could explain the soothing feeling of his nose brushing around the angelic white clumps of long, wavy strands that I call my hair. This sentimental moment, right then, made the past year worth it. But just days later, I found myself in a pit of despair-inducing mental trauma once again.  
I was walking home from somewhere, I can't exactly remember where, when I heard a loud whine come from what sounded like a wounded animal. I rushed over to where I thought the sound was, and there was when I saw what truly ruined any innocence I had left inside my tiny soul. My dog lay on the ground with what looked like a broken leg. I rushed over to nurture my best friend, who I wasn't sure would make it; I was too late though. The driver who had accidentally hit my dog was repulsively angry that my dogs body had left a dent in his front bumper. Every morally correct way of dealing with his anger had apparently left his system, because before I knew it he drove directly over my dogs stomach. Let me tell you, you've never experienced true demoralization and terror until you stare at your dog wide eyed as you see its eyes pop out of its sockets and blood squirt from its mouth like a broken water balloon. I had lost my one and only friend, and now I was truly all alone.  
I picked up the lifeless body that used to be my best friend. Even though he had just died only a few minutes before, I could feel the muscles and insides hardening and getting cold as it prepares for pallor mortis. His fur looked and felt tender and fake, like a shaggy rug that had just dried from being spilt on. His eyes, although glossy because of the pallor mortis, were dull and empty. As I held him with my limp arms, my jacket became soaked in a cruel mixture of his blood and my seemingly never ending tears. Still confusingly shocked, but no longer paralyzed with fear, I stood up and carried the dog to the backyard. There, I placed him down lightly and found a shovel. Tears still steaming down my face like a river, and my heart still throbbing with pain, I began to dig the beginning of what would be the best burial ground I could make for my only friend. Now it makes sense. This was probably the time when the frontal temporal dementia began to set place in my brain.  
After the burial, I became secluded from everyone and everything around me. I spent my days in the dark, alone and ravishing in the air next to me of what should be my dog. One day while going through my parents old closet, I found a book. I opened it to reveal not a normal book, but a journal; a journal that belonged to my mother. It looked like she had kept it for years, and wrote meticulously in it throughout her adult life. I knew I shouldn't have read it, but my adolescent impulses couldn't take the curiosity. All she wrote about me was that she never wanted me, but my adopted father had convinced her to keep me. She wrote about how I was a ruthless child and meant nothing to her. Apparently, I was just a waste of space and money that ruined her life by taking her away from her dreams. It hurt, but I was numb to any sort of emotional pain that could ever try and harm me. I simply put the book to rest at the bottom of the closet and never approached it again.  
One good thing did happen to me though, I was accepted into Hope's Peak Academy; the world's most prestigious school for the world's most talented individuals. I of course, do not posses any talents. I was chosen by sheer luck of a drawing, that's why they call me the Super High School Level Luckster. Of course, you can't have good news without bad news to follow. About a week after I was accepted, I was diagnosed with blood cancer. According to the doctors, I have about a year left to live but that's okay because I get to experience the presence of people whose talents hold so much hope! My life wasn't all bad I suppose. For example, I'm filthy rich. My parents come from a long line of wealth, so all their money and customs went to me when they died. I also found a 3 million dollar lottery ticket on a walk one day. Unfortunately though, the money didn't lessen the amount of loneliness I felt. The only friends I had by then was the voices in my head caused by the pestering dementia.  
Lost in the set of flashbacks of my life before, I forgot what I was ultimately planning to do, The dead body of Junko Enoshima rested on the ground in front of me. She had just experienced her execution from being beaten by the whole other set of survivors. Suddenly, the hilarious laughter broke free once again. The air filled laughter that escaped my lungs sounded like a broken squeaky toy, but it felt ever so light. It was easy to laugh. This was funny, in a sick kind of way. Junko, the mastermind of this whole thing, wanted us to feel despair. But now, she's the one feeling the ultimate despair. Now she's the one being tortured. We now get to take a part of her and try to explain that we won. We can never replenish and recreate the world that she so brutally demolished, but now she can experience complete devastation as well.  
I then tied a leather belt around my forearm as tight as I could; it was so tight that I started losing feeling in my hand almost instantly. My gray eyes were wide and happy, but held a hint of insanity in the texture of the retina. I have a smile from ear to ear, and it won't go away. Sooner than I thought, I could no longer feel my hand that now showed a repulsing shade of purple; the color of purple that you would see on a fake grape candy product. There is a muffled laugh stuck in my throat as I grab the saw. It was smart to cut off her hand previously, because I'm not sure I would have had to courage to continue if I had any time to spare. I held my breath, brought the saw to my arm, and began.  
The pain was excruciating. Contrary to my loud obnoxious laughter, tears of pain covered my face like a blanket. I tried not to think about it though, as it would make me happier in the long run. Blood pushed through arteries and veins that I was so roughly breaking through and eventually left a rather large puddle on the floor. For a second, I thought I was going to bleed out. Finally after what seemed like ages, my hand, or what was my hand, fell inanimately to the floor. It was just as surreal as it sounds; I had just successfully cut off my left hand.  
I quickly wrapped it in cloth and grabbed Junko's extracted left hand. I'm not completely sure on how to attach it, so I grabbed a tiny box filled with sewing supplies and glue. The glue burned profusely as I applied it to my open wound, but I got over it. I set the hand on my wound and laced them together with the sewing needle It wasn't as stable as I had wanted it to be, but it stayed on. Once I was done sewing the female hand to my arm, I wrapped it in medical bandages. I'm not exactly sure how my body is going to react to the new addition, but I know for sure I won't be able to use her hand as my own. It sat on my arm, in place of the hand I was missing, but it would never be a hand. To be honest, I'm not even sure how long it will last until it starts to decompose. Either way, I did it. she is a part of me, and I am in charge of a part of her. I inspected my new ligament. The nails are painted a beautiful blood red, and the fingers are long and thin; the type of fingers that were perfect for piano playing.  
I am so disgustingly satisfied with what I had just accomplished. Joy took over my whole body, and excitement claimed my face as its own. My smile reached a new level of large, and my eyes gleamed with happiness and hope. "Hahahaha! Finally!" I screamed out loud. "Trash like me only took her hand, but there is still so much more of her... I don't want to waste it!" I start to contemplate on what I should do to savor the body of the mastermind, then it hit me. I got it! I ran out of the dark, tainted room and went to find the others. After I explained and showed what I had just done, the rest of the elite students gained an evil grin and ran towards the room that held the remains of Junko Enoshima. Her soon to be dismembered ligaments were about to get new hosts, and it was all because of me.


End file.
